


Go! More! Dance!

by Tinwoman



Series: Blackout Approaching [3]
Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Established Relationship, Multi, One Shot Collection, Oral Sex, Polyamory, Roleplay, Semi-Public Sex, Threesome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-13
Updated: 2016-08-15
Packaged: 2018-07-14 22:30:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7193534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tinwoman/pseuds/Tinwoman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Fixer and Mac are still pretty careful with him in public. Especially around anyone they all know, they’ll barely touch him, and never let anything slip that would imply…well they never imply that the three of them are regularly fucking and he’s maybe-kinda half in love with them.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>One shot collection of MacCready/Jules (F!SS)/Deacon, building a life together after all their previous plans for the future got shot to hell and back. Featuring: smut, cuddles, rampant regionalism, gratuitous domesticity, minor canon-fuckery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Date Night

**Author's Note:**

> These things are mostly scrapped sex scenes from other works that I tried to breath some new life into. Also if you wanna check out how these nerds got together, that's covered in explicit detail in [Hear That Thunder Roll](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6410773/chapters/14676265). BUT you shouldn't need to read it for these ones to make sense.

The thing is, Deacon thinks as he stares at the two grinning faces across from him, Fixer and Mac work as a team. They’ve been together for a while now in the romantic sense, and even longer in the employer-employee, boss-mercenary, comrades-in-violence sense. So it’s not surprising that they’ve got a certain rhythm, a give and take that’s so natural it seems almost choreographed. They can sweet talk a caravan leader for a better price on .308s, wheedle their way out of sticky situations, and intimidate the crap out of Mr. Tough Guy Raiders together, all without missing a beat. Most of the time it’s truly something to behold.

Other times, it’s damn annoying. Like, for example, when they are utterly united in dragging him along on something Fixer keeps insisting is a real, pre-war concept.

“Date night?” Deacon says dubiously, looking to MacCready for some sort of hint.

“Yeah!” Fixer says through the two bobby pins in her mouth, hands behind her head as she pins her dark hair into a knot at the back of her neck. “You know – dinner? A show? That traveling theater troupe is near Starlight. I thought we could check it out!”

They’re sitting outside the little circle of houses at Oberland Station, enjoying the warm spring air. MacCready is sprawled flat on his back and Deacon’s crossed-legged next to him, close but not _close-close._ Fixer’s half-sitting on her knees, trying to tame her thick black hair into some semblance of order. She’s been letting it grow out, more out of indifference than anything else, but Deacon likes it. Likes the way it feels against his skin, likes the way it looks in MacCready’s hands when he threads his fingers through it.

“Uh, you guys don’t really need to…” Deacon starts, gesturing expansively. “I mean, you already, you know –“

“ _Got_ you?” Mac suggests, all faux-innocence and wide blue eyes, at odds with his wicked grin.

“Well, I’d go with something that makes me sound less like a squirrel caught in a trap, but….yeah,” Deacon laughs, grabbing at a nearby stalk of hubflower and tossing it at him, the petals scattering across MacCready’s chest.

“Aw, Squirrel-Deacon,” MacCready coos, tilting his head back up to the sky and closing his eyes. “Cute.”

Deacon rolls his eyes but copies Mac, unfolding his legs from underneath him and stretching out on his back. The cool packed dirt feels nice, and he knows without looking that MacCready’s hand is resting close to his, almost-but-not-quite brushing up against him.

Fixer and Mac are still pretty careful with him in public. Especially around anyone they all know, they’ll barely touch him, and never let anything slip that would imply…well they never imply that the three of them are regularly fucking and he’s maybe-kinda half in love with them.

Fixer laughs. “Deacon, that’s what a date night _is_. An excuse to get dressed up and do something fun and silly with your partners.”

“Plural?” Deacon says archly, and Fixer snorts, finishing tying her hair up and peering down at the two of them. 

“Okay, the Wasteland didn’t _invent_ this concept, you know,” she scoffs. “Plenty of couples took their boyfriend out to a movie pre-war.”

“C’mon, Deacon,” MacCready says, right next to his ear so Deacon can feel the whisper of his breath. Deacon shivers slightly. “It’ll be a blast.”

“Okay, okay,” Deacon says with a huge, theatrical sigh. “You guys don’t quit, do you?”

Fixer laughs. “Resistance is futile, baby.” That last with a wink at him, and he wracks his brain to come up with the reference. Something sci-fi, he’s sure, but he can’t quite place it. 

“The future must be so disappointing for you, Fix. No alien treaties, no space council, nothing like what you guys thought it would be, huh?” That’s close enough to count, Deacon thinks, and is rewarded with Fixer’s appreciative chuckle. 

“I can think of a few things that make up for the crushing lack of faster-than-light travel,” she says, and though there’s a joke in her voice her gaze is wholly sweet, and Deacon bites his lip against a stupid, dopey smile. 

“You guys are such nerds,” MacCready says fondly, and pulls the brim of his cap lower down over his eyes, the summer breeze ruffling his light brown hair.

***********

The stage is set up on the wide, flat expanse of the old drive-in, the screen still blank and looming above them. They’ve got the set-up for a dreamy, fantasy production. Deacon’s seen almost all of the shows that this group does — he’s a fan of the Shakespeare histories, usually, or at least something loosely based on reality, but this’ll be a good one for tonight.

Fixer’s practically skipping with excitement, carrying a blanket and a few of the rattiest pillows that she’s deemed fit for outdoor use. Picking a spot near the back, nestled up in the shadow of one of the long-abandoned cars and a good distance away from the other groups scattered around the area, she spreads the blanket out with a flourish and sits down. MacCready stretches out next to her, idly stroking the top of her hand with his thumb, with Deacon settling down on Mac’s other side. 

“So, what’s the story about?” MacCready asks, right as the stage lights flicker on.

“You’ll see,” Fixer says with a smile. “Deacon, have you heard of Midsummer Night’s Dream?”

 _Ah, yep. That’s the one._ “Oh Fixer, what fools you mortals be! Of course I’ve seen it,” he replies, pulling a scandalized look.

“Why am I not surprised?” MacCready grumbles, and Deacon glances around before quickly reaching over and giving Mac a squeeze-y pinch against his ribs. The other man yelps and swats back at him, and Deacon manages to capture his skinny wrist in his hand, holding him fast. Deacon grins at the incredulous look on MacCready’s face, and for a moment he wishes they were alone so he could kiss him, could roll him over and run his fingers over the warm skin of his neck.

“Shhhh,” Fixer says, eyes fixed on the stage and shining with anticipation. “It’s starting.”

It’s a good performance, Deacon thinks. Not that he has tons of experience with sorting live theater into categories of “Good” or “Bad”, but Fixer at least is transfixed. Deacon can see her drinking in every word, eyes wide with something close to wonder. 

MacCready, on the other hand, is bored within twenty minutes. Deacon feels him shifting next to him, trying not to disturb Fixer but clearly restless. Deacon leans over to him, bracing himself on one arm and letting his lips brush up against Mac’s ear.

“Shakespeare not doing it for you?” he asks quietly.

MacCready glances at Fixer a little guiltily, then turns to Deacon and whispers, “Nah. We did things like this in Little Lamplight a million years ago. Plays and stuff. It’s fun to _do,_ to read the lines and joke around on stage. But this isn’t for me — I can’t even understand what they’re saying half the time.”

“Hmmm,” Deacon says, shifting closer to him. “Want me to translate?”

MacCready lets out a slow, hitched breath, and Deacon feels a familiar flutter in his stomach. Mac likes Deacon’s voice, especially when it’s low and quiet like this, and Deacon isn’t shy about pressing that button. Getting MacCready stammering and blushing is one of his Top Ten Ways to Pass The Time. 

MacCready bites his lip and breathes, “Yeah. Sure, talk to me.”

Deacon scoots right up next to MacCready, one arm braced behind MacCready’s back and the other resting on his raised knee, his body curved slightly around MacCready to give them some semblance of privacy. Bending his head down so his chin is brushing against the fabric of MacCready’s jacket, he glances up at the stage to reorient himself and starts. 

“So it’s the beginning of the second act,” Deacon says, quiet as he can manage. “And the two people on stage are fairies. They’re talking about the Fairy King and Fairy Queen. There’s trouble in fairy paradise, apparently, because...”

But just then Deacon feels a hand on his knee, a calloused thumb moving in a lazy circle. MacCready raises an eyebrow at Deacon’s surprised expression, all cocky grins and daring him to say something.

“You really are bored, aren’t you, Bobby?” Deacon drawls, and MacCready swallows a little at the nickname. 

“I can find ways to keep myself entertained,” MacCready says with a crooked smile, but then his expression falters a bit. “If this is...if this okay?” MacCready tilts his head slightly, indicating the smattering of other groups of people around them, and Deacon feels a twist of warm affection in his chest.

Deacon knows MacCready doesn’t really get this part of him, the secretive part that wants to keep the three of them hidden and private and all for himself. Knows MacCready sometimes gets frustrated by it, or worried about what it means.

But even still, he doesn’t push, never tries to take anything past what Deacon’s comfortable with. And perversely tonight, in the dark, warm air, Deacon wants to show him that...well, that _he’s_ trying, too. That he wants to do things for MacCready too, to meet him, if not halfway, then a little closer to where MacCready’s at, anyway. If MacCready wants to cuddle a little and play the “how far can I go up your leg before you break” game, then Deacon can learn to roll with that. 

For him — for both of them — he could learn to do a lot.

“Yeah,” Deacon murmurs, moving his hand to squeeze MacCready’s and reveling in the other man’s delighted smile. “Yeah, this is okay.”

Fixer glances over at them, looking slightly annoyed by their chatter, but her expression softens when she sees the two of them curled up together.

“Keep it down over there,” she says softly, her voice warm. “ _Some_ of us are trying to watch the play, you know.”

MacCready just winks at her and she rolls her eyes in response, turning back to the stage.

“Well?” MacCready prompts, one eyebrow raised, and Deacon huffs out a small laugh. “Now what’s happening?”

“Okay,” Deacon says, trying to settle his thoughts and ignore the warm hand stroking him slowly over his jeans, his abdomen tightening with hot anticipation. “Now we’ve moved on to Oberon, the Fairy King, telling us all about his devious machinations. Love potions, a classic ploy in fantasy stories…”

It goes on like this, Deacon whispering in Mac’s ear, MacCready subtly but insistently copping a feel while pretending to listen, Fixer shooting them occasional, vague smiles but generally ignoring them in favor of the play. Mac’s hand stays at a nice, neutral mid-thigh. Pleasantly, arousing, but not overwhelming. 

But right at the beginning of Act IV MacCready ups the ante, shifting to get a better angle so he can drag his palm higher along Deacon’s inner thigh, getting dangerously close to non-thigh places. When Mac’s fingers just barely brush against his cock, the slow-burn of pleasure that Mac’s been patiently stoking ignites in his blood. And suddenly he’s not just lightly buzzed with lust. Suddenly he’s swallowing hard and breathing fast and his stiff cock is pressing up against the seam of his jeans. 

Deacon starts losing the thread of the play, spreading his legs a little despite himself when Mac’s fingertips brush up _right_ where he wants them again. _Ohhh, that feels nice._

“Yeah?” MacCready asks, maintaining a pretty believable ‘Who, me?’ expression. “So now Hermia and Helena are...saying what, exactly?”

“I. Uh,” Deacon mumbles, arching his back a little and biting back a moan when MacCready presses down against the obvious bulge. “Ohhh. M-Mac, you’re only hurting yourself here, you know.”

“Huh, is that so?” MacCready says, grinning and cupping Deacon’s erection lightly through his pants. _God I’m so hard already. I-shit, I..._

Deacon takes a breath, willing himself to think clearly. “Yeah. You’re sabotaging your own...education. In...classic - _ungg_ \- classic...books. Book reading. Literature!” Deacon’s head feels thick, arousal clouding his thoughts. He knows MacCready will stop the second he asks him to, all he has to do is say the word, but he...doesn’t. He doesn’t _want_ to stop. 

He wants to drag MacCready into the nearest dark corner and kiss him til that grin is wiped off his face, wants MacCready to take him in his hand rub his thumb over the head of his cock, wants to be home in bed with him so he can flip him over and fuck him til he’s boneless. 

_Okay, this train of thought is not helpful._

“Fixer, a little h-help? Your boyfriend is trying to kill me, here” Deacon whispers through gritted teeth, clenching his fists to keep from pressing up against MacCready’s teasing hand again. 

“Until dawn, he’s your boyfriend,” she whispers back absently, still watching the play and not turning to look at them, waving him off with a vague hand.

“Besides,” MacCready says, his grip a little tighter on Deacon’s cock, practically jerking him off through his pants. _Oh God. Oh God._ “You started this. So let’s see that famous poker face, angel.” 

But Deacon’s had _enough._ He’s so turned on now he can barely stand it, and he either needs to jump in a lake to cool off or finish this himself. Grabbing MacCready’s hand, he pulls it away from his crotch and holds it fast, leaning over him to whisper to Fixer. 

“We’ll be right back, pal,” he says with a barely-there kiss on her cheek, and before her or McCready can do more than blink in response he’s pulling MacCready up and dragging him toward the small, abandoned cafe in the back corner of the lot. 

_MacCready wants some semi-public nookie, then that’s what he’s going to get._

“Deacon,” MacCready whispers, laughing and surprised. “Deacon, what are you -”

“Shhh,” Deacon shushes him, pulling him through the door and turning to put a finger on his lips. “Stay quiet, sniper boy.” He’s reasonably sure no one was in there right now, and hey, not like this is gonna take that long. Deacon does a quick check for any interlopers though, tugging MacCready up the stairs to the tiny landing at the top. _Good. All clear._ When he turns around, MacCready is leaning up against the wall, looking so self-satisfied and smug that Deacon thinks it ought to be illegal. 

“C’mere,” MacCready says, voice low, and finally pulls Deacon in for a hungry kiss. Deacon lets out a muffled groan, pushing MacCready back against the wall and rubbing roughly against him, the heavy friction sending waves of delicious pleasure through his body. After all the light, fleeting touches, the feel of MacCready rutting against his leg is almost too much, too fast.

 _God, I might actually come in my pants if I don’t stop. That’d be embarrassing._

MacCready’s feeling it too, though, gasping for breath between kisses, his hands sliding under Deacon’s T-shirt to get more contact. Deacon can feel the impression of MacCready’s erection even through his pants, and his fingers tighten around MacCready’s waist.

“Deacon,” MacCready pants, pulling away enough to draw in a breath. “Deacon, can...can I suck you?”

Deacon blinks, trying to clear his head and make sure he heard him correctly. 

“You want to...Now? Really?” he asks, surprised. He had been assuming a mutual jerk-off was all that was on the menu, nice and quick and dirty, finishing up before anyone wandered in. But hell, the thought of Mac swallowing him down, of working himself into that warm, wet mouth, was sweet enough to make him reconsider.

“Yeah,” MacCready says, voice cracking slightly. “God _yes._ I want to so bad. I would’ve done it out there if you’d let me.”

Deacon closes his eyes against that mental image, terrifying but slightly thrilling all the same. MacCready grinds up against him, breath hot against his neck and practically vibrating with need. 

“Please, Deacon,” he whispers, and that does it for him. Deacon pulls MacCready in for a kiss, swallowing the other man’s moan, then pushes lightly on the tops of MacCready’s shoulders. With a small, pleased sound MacCready goes down to his knees in front of him, hands practically ripping at Deacon’s belt and zipper. He pulls Deacon’s cock out, hand sliding up with a twist of his wrist, and Deacon shudders.

“Yeah. Yeah, Bobby. Suck me off,” he whispers encouragingly, both to get Mac that much hotter for it and to make sure he didn’t drag this out too long.

When Mac licks up the underside of his shaft and wraps his lips around the head of his cock Deacon nearly cries out. _Yes yes yes._ Mac’s mouth on his cock feels like heaven, hot and eager. Deacon reaches down to tangle one hand in MacCready’s short hair and lets the other drift to MacCready’s cheek, thrusting his hips very slightly, not wanting to overwhelm him but desperate for more, more, _more._

MacCready relaxes under his hands, taking Deacon deeper until the head of his cock bumps lightly against the back of MacCready’s throat. Glancing up, just to make sure they were still hidden in the shadows, Deacon feels another stab of arousal at the realization that yes, he was 20 feet away from people watching a play, and his lover was on his knees with Deacon’s dick in his mouth.

 _Fuck. Fuck, this is...Christ…_

MacCready sucks a little harder, his cheeks hollowing slightly, drawing Deacon’s attention back to him, and he pushes deeper into MacCready’s mouth. 

“God Bobby, that’s amazing,” Deacon breathes, knowing how turned on Mac gets when he’s praised. “You — fuck, that’s...yeah. Yeah. You take it so well, such a — ung, _fuck_ — such a good cocksucker.”

MacCready moans a little around the cock in his mouth and Deacon’s thrusts get more erratic, fucking into MacCready’s willing mouth. _Yeah, yeah, yeah..._ The coil of hot, sweet pleasure in his gut is getting tighter, his balls heavy between his legs. Mac’s pretty blue eyes are looking up at him, practically begging for Deacon to come in his mouth. 

He’s close, he’s getting so close, and he moves his hand on MacCready’s cheek down to his throat, feeling the press of his own cock against his palm, and that’s _it_ , that’s just fucking it. It feels too goddamn good, he’s not even trying to hold back, and with a groan he can’t fully suppress he’s coming in thick, hard bursts. He has just enough presence of mind to pull back a little so MacCready doesn’t choke or sputter on his release. MacCready doesn’t seem to notice or appreciate the courtesy, though, swallowing automatically and licking any last traces of semen off Deacon’s softening cock. 

Deacon pulls MacCready up and kisses him deeply, tasting himself on Mac’s lips. 

“Mmmm. I should listen to you more often, huh?” Deacon says, grinning a little wildly, feeling loose and float-y after his orgasm.

“That’s what I’ve been telling you for months,” MacCready says with an eyeroll, but when Deacon reaches down to palm his erection MacCready shivers against him, his knees nearly buckling. 

Pushing MacCready gently against the wall, Deacon undoes the other man’s pants and belt and draws his cock out, stroking him slowly. MacCready’s mostly there already, his cock painfully hard, flushed and leaking pre-come. 

“Look at you,” Deacon breathes, his other hand holding MacCready’s hips still as he jerked him off. “What a picture you are. A highly inappropriate, Adults-Only, Get You Fired From Your Day Job picture, but still very pretty. I still wish I had an actual office, you know. Then I could take some racy photos of you and hide ‘em in my desk drawer, all secret-like.”

“Deacon,” MacCready groans, looking torn between lust and annoyance. “Shut up.”

Deacon laughs quietly, increasing the speed of his strokes, feeling the slick slide of MacCready’s cock against his palm, hot and pulsing. “Aw, I thought you liked it. You asked me to talk to you.”

Panting, MacCready screws his eyes shut. “Not - not about your — _ohhh_ — d-dumb, pretend office j-job...” 

“Bobby, you need to have more respect for my career,” Deacon says sternly, pulling a fake pout. He moves his other hand between MacCready’s legs, wedging it in the small space the restriction of the pants would allow and rubbing his fingertips against the soft, sensitive skin just behind MacCready’s balls.

“Oh - oh Deacon. God — yes, yes,” MacCready stutters, writhing helplessly against Deacon’s hands, too far gone too keep up the banter. Deacon presses close to him and kisses him again, feeling MacCready pant against his open mouth. And in just a few more strokes MacCready tenses in Deacon’s arms and comes messily between them, his sharp cry of completion muffled by Deacon’s mouth on his. 

“That’s it, that’s it,” Deacon whispers, pulling back so MacCready can catch his breath. He brings his come-streaked hand up to his mouth, licking his fingers clean before pushing a single digit into MacCready’s slack mouth. Just to feel that warmth again, that clever tongue against his skin. 

MacCready opens his eyes slowly, sucking almost automatically and tucking himself away, sighing with contentment when Deacon pulls his finger out. Deacon smiles and brushes his thumb over MacCready’s lips before leaning down to kiss him again, softly this time, cradling his face in his hand. 

“Hi,” MacCready says when they draw apart, grinning sweetly up at him. 

“Hey there, yourself” Deacon replies, leaning forward so their foreheads touched, Mac’s skin flushed and damp against his own. 

“That was...nice,” MacCready says, blushing a little, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “Thanks, for... I really wasn’t expecting you to...I mean, I was just gonna tease you but then knock it off, you know?”

“I know,” Deacon says, sliding his arms around Mac’s torso and pulling him close, tucking him just under his chin. “I wanted to. Turns out it’s not so bad after all.”

MacCready snorts, but Deacon can feel the smile pressed against his neck as Mac’s arms come up around his neck. “Duh, Deeks. Everyone knows that.”

“Well, I guess we both learned something today, didn’t we?” Deacon says, not wanting to release Mac just yet, luxuriating in the feel of his body pressed up against him, the steady, familiar beat of his heart. 

“Sure, let’s go with that,” MacCready says with a small chuckle. “Ready to head back? We probably shouldn’t linger here too long, right?”

Deacon sighs. “Mmhmm. Though I will have the fondest memories of this place from now on.”

MacCready laughs at that. “See? _Memories,_ Deacon. I’m here to help you make some memories. Do you...do you want to go out separately?” He hesitates a little, biting his lip almost nervously.

Deacon winces slightly. He had insisted on that when they first started...well, he doesn’t really have a word for what this is, but when the three of them first started doing _this,_ he would get skittish if they all left a place together, would make them split up. It hurt Mac; he knew it at the time, and he regrets it now. 

_The costs of being paranoid are going to start outweighing the benefits soon,_ Deacon thinks ruefully, and if that isn’t the strangest thought he’s had in a while, well...Well. He’ll file that away for further consideration later. Right now he’s got other things on his mind.

“Nah. I mean, if anyone saw us on the way in, they know what we were doing,” Deacon says with a grin, taking MacCready’s hand for good measure and heading back down the stairs.

“Yeah?” MacCready says, sounding a little hopeful, tangling his fingers with Deacon’s and squeezing before letting go.

“Yeah. C’mon, let’s go before Fixer sends a search party in after us.”

“Are you kidding?” MacCready says, quieter now that they’re out the door and back in the open air. “Did you see the way she was glued to the show? She wouldn’t’ve noticed if mutants had attacked, much less that her boyfriends wandered away to jump each other’s bones.”

“Fair point. Well, now we know how to distract her -- apparently just sit her down in front of a play and she’s dead to the world. Could provide a useful cover,” Deacon says with an easy smile.

Right before they get back to their blanket and settle down again, he leans over and kisses MacCready quickly on the cheek, light as air and sweet as candy, and the startled, wide-eyed look he gets in return makes his heart skip a beat.

“You two have fun?” Fixer asks, eyebrow raised and one corner of her mouth twitching up as they sit back down, arranging themselves around her. Deacon nudges her with his shoulder and MacCready just hums in confirmation, and when Fixer loops her arm around MacCready’s she doesn’t neglect to stretch her leg out, tapping Deacon’s ankle lightly with her booted foot and then resting it there. 

_It’s enough. It’s enough for all of us._


	2. Relaxation Techniques

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some slightly under-negotiated sex acts happen in this chapter, just FYI. Still 100% consensual, but something that should’ve been discussed beforehand.

The ceramic mug in Jules’s hands is warm, the heat from the bitter thistle tea soaking into her skin as she sits at the little kitchen counter. A breeze shudders in from the open window, crisp and cool, with the unmistakable smell of dry leaves and cinder smoke and the dark heft of the earth. Autumn nights still have a pleasant bite in the air, even after Sanctuary Hills has changed so dramatically it’s barely recognizable anymore.

She doesn’t mind, though. Change is good. Jules has always been better at moving, at racing forward and barreling ahead, then standing still.

A creaking sound, and Mac drags himself through the front door. He looks exhausted — red-rimmed eyes, slumped shoulders, and when he pulls off his cap there’s blood crusting in his hairline and over his left eyebrow. Resting his rifle in it’s place by the door, he waggles his fingers in greeting.

“Hey,” he says, voice frayed around the edges.

“Hey yourself,” Jules says, suppressing a frown and reaching out for him. Giving his hands an automatic squeeze, she pulls him into the kitchen and gently runs her fingers over the bloody skin on his face. “What happened here?”

“Just a few raiders,” he says, leaning into the warmth of her hands. “Trying to run off with what we caught in our traps. Barely grazed me.”

Exhaling slowly, Jules drops her hands and doesn't answer right away. Mac’s been pushing himself these past few weeks, taking every extra guard rotation and hunting party spot that he could. It’s been a minor point of contention, with him on one side and her and Deacon on the other, trying to negotiate levels of acceptable risk now that they’re...together. Now that they’re not three lone wolves out in the wilderness, but a slapdash, completely unexpected, impossible-to-explain _unit._ There are other factors in play now, she tried to tell him, but Mac just shrugged her off.

But even though she worries about this exact thing — him getting hurt because he's so run down — she gets the _why_ of it.

Duncan’s on his way, will be here any day now, and MacCready plans on spending every last second with his son, for as long as he can.

Privately, Jules thinks he's being a little ridiculous — it's not like Preston would insist on Mac taking his usual rotation, not with Duncan back in his life for the first time in years. In fact, Preston is practically glowing with happiness that MacCready and Duncan are mere days away from a reunion, would probably throw a damn party if MacCready wanted. But Mac’s always had ironclad rules about what he owes, about fairness and balance and community, so Jules hasn’t pushed it before now. _That might change, going forward,_ she thinks, lips tight.

Soft footfalls behind her, and she knows without turning that Deacon’s come out of the back room.

“Lemme guess,” Deacon drawls, leaning up against the counter. “Teasing Cait again?”

“Something like that,” MacCready says with a tired grin, staying still while Deacon takes his turn examining Mac’s face. “It’s only a scratch, Deeks — I’m just gonna leave it and go to bed.”

Deacon makes a small sound of disagreement, tilting Mac’s chin upward with one hand and delicately probing the swollen edges of the gash with the other.

“Far be it for me to shatter your tough guy image, Robert, but this needs to be cleaned,” Deacon says, ignoring Mac’s obvious eyeroll.

“Would it help my cause if told you I am literally too tired to do that right now? It’ll still be there in the morning” Mac says in a tight, ragged voice, brushing his fingers against Deacon’s bicep and attempting another smile.

“Deacon’s right,” Jules says, dragging a rickety chair over to the kitchen and wedging it under the sink. “C’mere — sit down, and we’ll at least clean it up before you collapse into bed, okay?”

Mac lets out a heavy sigh but shrugs in resigned agreement, and Jules thinks he’s just too damn exhausted to fight tonight. Deacon pushes him gently toward the chair, giving him a quick smack on the ass and murmuring “Git along, little doggie,” startling a quiet laugh out of him.

Probably in mild protest, Mac plunks himself down in the chair hard, grimacing slightly at the impact. Biting her lip to stifle her smile, Jules squeezes Mac’s shoulder then half-turns back to Deacon.

“Water?” she says, jerking her head toward the door, and with a snap and a finger-gun Deacon disappears out the back door. They’d been heating up a pail of water out back to do some cleaning tonight — whenever possible, Jules prefers to have warm water for washing anything that went on her body or in her mouth, but a bleeding MacCready trumps her sponge-bath preferences.

“Relax,” Jules says softly, feeling the knotted tension in MacCready’s shoulder, and guides the back of his head to rest against the lip of the sink. Sturges fixed up last month so it drains out into the ditch at the bottom of the hill, making it at least somewhat useful in the house.

There’s no actual plumbing, of course. No water rushing up through the pipes at the touch of her hand, and Jules wonders if that’ll ever stop feeling strange. Everyday a camping trip. Everyday playing Pioneer Dress-Up with her siblings in the yard, sticks for guns and tablecloth tents and stealing small, sour raspberries from the neighbor’s yard for their harvest.

_Except now everything’s real. No time-outs anymore, no Back To Reality._

Shaking her head slightly, Jules feels the muscles under her hand shift as Mac rolls his shoulders with a more pronounced frown.

“I’m guessing if you’re pushing back on getting your literal _head wound_ cleaned, there’s no chance you’ll let me give you a backrub tonight, huh?” Jules asks, chewing on her bottom lip, smoothing her hand from his shoulder to the nape of his neck, scratching lightly at his hairline.

Mac smiles fully for the first time tonight, and Jules feels the familiar, almost painfully tight sensation in her chest at the sight. _His son. He’s going to see Duncan again._

It’s almost like forgiveness.

“Nah. Thanks, though. Maybe tomorrow?” he peeks up at her, and she grins back at him.

“Sure, sweetheart. But delays come with a price, you know,” she says, leaning down to brush her lips against his. The angle is awkward, she has to bend too far for it to really be comfortable, but it’s worth it to feel him exhale against her, to close her eyes and trace his smile with her mouth.

“You should see what she charges for cancellations fees,” Deacon says with a grin, placing the pail of water on the counter, careful not to slosh any over the side. Jules straightens, Deacon’s palm sliding almost absently up her spine, and Mac resettles himself against the sink. Faint curls of steam rise up from the bucket at her elbow.

“Okay buddy, let’s see that forehead,” she says in a low voice, and dips a clean cloth in the water, testing the temperature before gently pressing it against the crusted blood and sweat. Keeping Mac’s face tilted backward to avoid dripping in his eyes, Jules cleans the area around the wound enough to make sure it’s actually as minor as MacCready claimed. _Looks okay._ Mac exhales slowly, relaxing a bit under the familiar, practiced motions of her hands.

On impulse, she cups her hands together and scoops more water from the pail, letting it drip down into Mac’s hair, wetting it fully with a few more handfuls. Mac snorts, but doesn’t protest when she grabs a sliver of soap and lathers it up, working her soapy hands into his hair.

On the other side of Mac, while he’s distracted by how quickly ‘let me clean your obvious head wound’ turned into ‘impromptu bathtime’, Deacon kneels down and takes one of Mac’s hands between his own, rubbing slow, deep circles into his palm.

“Ohhh,” MacCready lets out a small, surprised sound, and Jules feels his head get slightly heavier in her hands as the tension flows out of him. “That’s…”

“Good, right?” Deacon grins, tugging slightly on Mac’s fingers while his thumb digs into the heel of his hand. Mac tends to get cramps and sharp twinges in his hands when he’s been out in the field for too long — hands curled around a gun since he was a child, and he doesn’t even notice the pain til long after. Deacon told Jules privately a while back he was worried Mac might permanently damage the muscles if he’s not careful.

“You guys don’t have to do this,” Mac mumbles, shifting slightly in the chair, still a little shy, a little uncomfortable at being the sole focus of their attention. Jules opens her mouth to reply, but Decon beats her to it.

“This is just what happens when you start fooling around with not one, but two Railroad agents, baby. Buy one, get one free, plus a bonus spa package,” he says, switching over to Mac’s other hand.

MacCready laughs, tiny vibrations shivering up through Jules’s hands as she starts to rise the suds out of his hair. “What’s a spa?”

“Ignore him,” Jules says firmly, but with a wink over at Deacon over Mac’s blissed out face. “Tell us the plan again for Duncan?” She knows it all by heart now, Deacon does too, but it’s soothing for Mac to keep repeating it.

“The last letter came six days ago, and they were still a few days out from the Commonwealth. Should be taking the old 93 route, but they’ll have to stop in Old Providence for at least a day or two,” Mac reels off, eyes drifting shut. “The caravan leader said Duncan seemed good, made a friend even, some little kid traveling with her Uncle.”

He goes on, getting sleepier by the minute, voice heavy as he tells them his roadmap for getting Duncan up to speed in the makeshift school with Jun and Preston and Sarah, for teaching him how to hunt and cook. For introducing him to Jules and Deacon, once he’s had a chance to adjust.

Deacon’s mouth twitches at that last bit, a kneejerk downward twist of his lips to hide the desperate, fragile smile at the thought of _family._ Catches Jules’s eyes and ducks his head down, kissing the center of MacCready’s palm as Mac trails off, half-asleep. Jules lets the moment pass. Deacon’ll come to it, when he’s ready. She’s sure of it.

Deacon stands, knees popping slightly, as Jules reaches for the towel on the counter and starts to pat Mac’s hair dry. He makes a low, pleased noise in the back of his throat, head dipping backwards over the sink before opening his eyes slowly. ‘Thank you,’ he mouths to Jules, and she brushes a thumb over his cheek and smiles back at him.

“Want me to carry you to bed?” Deacon asks. There’s a teasing edge to his voice, but his fingers are tracing the delicate bones of MacCready’s wrist with something close to reverence.

Jules doesn’t say anything, but knows Deacon is feeling the impending separation looming in front of them. The two of them are going to head out for a few weeks, Jules heading south to the Castle and Deacon out on a scouting mission, to give MacCready and Duncan some much-needed alone time. It’ll be good, probably for all of them, but Jules doesn’t blame Deacon for wanting to hold on to this last little bit. He’s hasn’t had something to miss in a long time.

“I thinks I can still manage that on my own,” MacCready says drowsily. A few strands of damp hair stick to his forehead, and when Jules smoothes them back he cants his head up to brush a kiss against her knuckles.

“Mmm. Good thing that’s not what I asked, then,” Deacon says, fingertips trailing up MacCready’s forearm.

MacCready sighs and rolls his eyes, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You really want me to say it, huh?”

“Always,” Deacon murmurs, leaning down for a kiss and shifting Mac forward, sliding his arms under MacCready’s back and knees. MacCready lets out a muffled yelp into Deacon’s mouth, and Jules reaches out instinctively to help stabilize them as Deacon bodily lifts Mac out of the chair.

“If you drop him, you’ll undo all our good work tonight,” she warns with a laugh, and Deacon scoffs before hoisting Mac higher in his arms, getting a firmer grip while MacCready clings to Deacon’s neck.

“Oh ye of little faith,” Deacon says mournfully, clicking his tongue disapprovingly while MacCready smothers his chuckle against Deacon’s chest. “Though I will concede that you’re heavier than you look, Bobby.”

“Blame Preston for that one,” MacCready says through a yawn, as Deacon carries him off down the narrow hallway, careful not to bang his head against the walls. “He’s got us doing strength training at the crack of dawn...”

“Goodnight,” Jules sing-songs to their retreating backs, and gets their automatic ‘Goodnight’ response in two-part harmony.

Smiling to herself, she pours the remainder of the water out of the bucket and places it upside on the towel to dry overnight. _Leave the washing up for tomorrow,_ she thinks, drumming her fingers idly on the bucket before reaching for her discarded mug of tea. She should go to bed. It’s late, she’s on early guard rotation tomorrow and still needs to write up a report for Des. The wind rattles in through the window again, cooler than before.

“One deadly sniper boyfriend, down for the count,” Deacon says softly from behind her, and before she can turn he wraps his arms around her waist and breathes into her hair.

“Thanks,” she says, turning her head slightly and bumping her cheek against his nose. “You don’t have to stay up, you know.”

“I know,” he says, his lips a little dry against her, and when he darts his tongue to wet them she feels it on the skin of her neck and shivers. “Thought I’d grab a nightcap before turning in.” There’s a grin in his voice now, and he kisses the side of her neck for real this time.

“Is that so?” Jules hums, pressing back against him and feeling the outline of his half-hard cock against the upper swell of her ass. “Mmm. You really _aren’t_ tired.”

“With such stimulating company before bed?” Deacon says, moving his head slightly so his sunglasses didn’t bite into the side of her face. “Might need something to take the edge off.”

“I never knew cleaning head wounds could be so sexy,” Jules says with a huff of laughter, her heartbeat kicking up another notch under Deacon’s lips. She slides her arms over his, one thumb pressing into his wrist as she lets her head fall back against his shoulder.

“I live to serve, Fix,” he murmurs, abandoning pretense and grinding up against her, and the thing with Deacon is, he lies but doesn’t _lie._ Even before they’d started sleeping together, she’d had an inkling about what he’d be like in bed, about what he’d want, and this is just one more piece of that puzzle.

She turns to face him, resting her arms around his neck and gasping a little at the friction of his erection at the juncture of her thighs.

“I have noticed your commitment to community service,” she concedes, mock-thoughtful, and before he can return the volley she leans up and kisses him, sucking on his lower lip. He tugs her tighter against him, fingers brushing against the edges of her t-shirt as he kisses her back.

It’s easy, and more familiar than Jules every would’ve thought possible. The give and take of kissing him, the way he sighs and groans into her mouth, the insistent slide of his tongue. When he pushes one of his legs between her own and cants it up, rubbing a little roughly against the fabric of her skirt, she gasps and breaks away, feeling the throb of arousal he’s teasing out of her like a heavy pulse.

“Truly a servant of the people,” Jules says, knowing Deacon can hear the catch in her voice, can feel the small, jerking motions of her hips as she rides his thigh. She moves a hand down to tug on his belt. “If I’d known that, Mac and I would’ve tried to seduce you way sooner — we could’ve used you one time when we limped back here, too tired to do anything other than fuck each other into sleep.”

“I remember,” Deacon whispers against her neck, voice breaking on a groan. “God, I remember.”

Jules blinks, surprised. She’s talking about a specific, particular time between her and Mac, similar to tonight. Right after they’d gotten together, when they could barely keep their hands off each other, and even though they were bruised up and bleeding they still reached out for each other, drugged with happiness and pleasure and the sparking excitement of something _new._

But Deacon wasn’t there, was off on some other recon mission. Right? She knew he used to follow her, but she hadn’t thought...

“Do you now? I was pretty sure I had your adventures all mapped out,” Jules says, feeling him shiver as she shifts her hips to get a sharper angle on his cock, to make it better for him.

“Yeah, you got me — just wishful thinking on my part,” Deacon breathes, but now she’s sure it’s a lie. He’d seen them, or maybe just heard them, dressed as a settler or a trader or god knows what cover he had to abandon once she kept dragging him back here. The thought sends a lick of heat through her, that Deacon had seen them, had _wanted_ them, long before she’d rolled the dice on something she’d barely dared to hope for.

“Too bad,” she says, the pulse between her legs getting hotter and sweeter. “Want me to give you the play-by-play, then?”

Deacon shudders hard against her, hands sliding up her back under her shirt, and she can feel his cock twitch even through the layers of fabric between them. She kisses him again before he can respond, his mouth hot and eager, a moan trapped in his throat. He pulls away, and she bends her head slightly to lick at the hollow of collarbone.

“Yeah, Fix,” he says finally, voice a little strained, separating from her to tug them both toward the couch in the front room. “Give me a debrief.”

Swallowing convulsively, she follows him to the couch and straddles him, his hands on her lips and the denim of his jeans rough against her bare thighs. If they were naked, he’d be sliding up inside her right now, and she grinds down helplessly against him at the thought.

“Well,” she starts, gratified to see how hard he was breathing. “We were sitting like this, like we are now. It was slow at first. You know Mac — careful, patient, hands above the waist and over my clothes until he’s _sure_ we’re on the same page.”

“Bet it drove you crazy,” Deacon murmurs fondly, his hands urging her to keep moving against him, and she laughs.

“Totally,” she agrees, hands fisting in the fabric of his tshirt. “Had to move things along myself. Peeled him out of that filthy jacket, ran my hands over his chest and arms. I wanted to see him, wanted to see the look on his face when I did...this.” She moves her hand down to Deacon’s erection at that last bit, palming him and grinning when he jerks up against her.

She remembers it so clearly, it’s almost like she’s there again. The heat, the darkness, she just wanted him so _badly,_ was still giddy with the obvious evidence of his desire.

“Tell me how he touched you,” Deacon says quickly, one hand sliding up the back of her shirt in an echo of his earlier caress. “How he made you feel.”

Jules bites back a moan. Fuck. Oh, _fuck._

“He - he,” Jules swallows and takes a steadying breath. “He unbuttoned my shirt, pushed my bra out of the way. He started sliding his thumb against my nipple, and —”

But she stops, making a strangled, started sound when she feels Deacon’s hands under her shirt, mimicking the actions she’s describing, roughly abrading her nipple with his thumb.

“Uhh - ohh,” she stutters, and she moans out loud when he pinches it, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger just how Mac likes to do.

“Keep going,” Deacon urges in a low voice, his other hand still encouraging her to press down against his cloth-covered cock. “Please, please keep talking.”

So she does. She pulls his shirt off and tells him about how Mac kissed her, how he played with her tits until she was dripping, how he wedged a hand between her legs and rubbed his knuckles over the fabric of her underwear, brushing her clit with just enough pressure to tease, and Deacon keeps on going. Keeps up a steady litany of encouragement while he reenacts everything she describes.

It’s a little dizzying and a lot arousing, remembering the time with Mac but with Deacon’s scent and voice, how good it was then and cataloguing the differences now. And God, the thought of Deacon watching, of jerking off to the sight (because he must have seen, she’s sure of it now. He’s barely even waiting for her cues anymore).

Finally Deacon picks her up and lays her down on the floor. She hastily shoves her underwear down and reaches greedily for his belt, and his chuckle at her eagerness is almost unnervingly similar to Mac’s. _His whole face looks different,_ she thinks, amazed even now at his ability to slip into a character. Jules has seen him do it before, but never like _this._

He peels his pants and underwear off in one go, kicking them down and away. Crawling over her, one hand tracing up the line of her thigh, his hand comes to rest on her cunt, fingertips just barely brushing the curl of her public hair. He raises an eyebrow, a clear question.

“Please baby, just fuck me,” she pants, too far gone to be embarrassed at how needy she sounds. “I need it.” Jules can’t say Mac’s name, won’t say it, not even for play, but she doesn’t say Deacon’s name either. _This is how it happened that night, too. Fucking, rutting on the floor of a dilapidated house and wondering if I’d gone ahead and fallen in love like an idiot._

Deacon groans and kisses her, wet and hot, his body a pleasing weight against her, and with one hand he lines himself up and pushes inside her. No hesitation, no fumbling, just slow and thick and good, the walls of her cunt stretching deliciously around him.

They haven’t done this very often, when it’s just the two of them, and every time Jules has been on top and in control. This is different. He’s not even _swearing._ Leaving sucking, biting kisses on her neck, the way Mac does. Jules thinks maybe it should be alarming that Deacon’s so attuned to the way Mac moves, even in bed, but she’s so turned on right now there’s no room in her head for anything else.

She wraps her legs around him, heels digging into his back, and shifts her hips up just a fraction to change the angle. _There, right there,_ and his pubic bone is grinding against her clit with every thrust and his tongue is in her mouth and the feel of his cock moving inside her is sending her hurtling toward the edge.

“Tell me you want it,” Deacon grits out, almost more to himself than to her. It’s less of a demand and more of a plea. Jules hears the edge of begging in his voice, and doesn’t make him wait.

“Yes, I do,” she breathes. “I want it. It’s so good, baby, you - _fuck_ \- you make me feel so good.”

His hips speed up, thrusting harder and faster, his balls slapping against her ass, and with a sound she’d swear is halfway between “Fuck” and “Jules” he comes, panting into her neck. She gives him a second to enjoy the aftershocks before pushing at his chest, rolling him over while he’s still inside her and sitting up. His cock is still mostly hard inside her, and before she can even ask for it his thumb is rolling over her clit, the knot of pleasure in her gut coiling tighter with little circle.

“That’s it. C’mon. C’mon,” he whispers, his free hand on her hip, giving himself a little more leverage to fuck into her as much as possible, giving her that extra bit of stimulation.

She has just enough presence of mind to cover her mouth when she comes, stifling her cry of completion and shuddering above him. Heart hammering in her chest, she breathes out through her fingers and runs her hand through her hair, collapsing gracelessly on top of Deacon and catching her breath.

“Don’t suppose you’ve got a clean handkerchief in that pair of jeans?” she asks after a moment, grinning.

“For you? Anything,” he says, and she can tell without looking that it’s back to normal, that he’s _Deacon_ -Deacon again. He shifts her off of him, laughing at her grumble, and half-sits to reach over to tug his discarded pants up to him and fishing a square of cloth out of the pocket and handing it to her.

“Thanks, partner.” She wants to pull him back down, wants to curl around him and rest her head on his shoulder, but he’s already standing up, shaking out his pants and yanking them back on with a deliberately blank face. _Uh oh._ She throws her shirt on and shimmies into her underwear, leaving everything else.

When he reaches out to help pull her to her feet, she doesn’t let go of his hands, drawing him a little closer. Reaching up, she cups his face in her hand, rubbing a thumb under his cheek.

“Hey,” she says softly. “You okay?”

“Was that,” he says finally, after a long pause. “Was that too...much? Too weird?"

She blinks. “No. I mean, I don’t think so. Why?”

“Cause we should’ve...I should’ve, asked him,” Deacon says, his gaze sliding away from her.

“Oh. Yeah, we probably should have,” Jules says, frowning slightly. “But I’m sure he won’t mind. Let’s talk to him about it tomorrow.”

Deacon doesn’t reply, just breathes out slowly, tension still creasing his face.

“Hey, if it makes you feel any better, I grant you both full permission to do a repeat performance — though it’ll probably be a lot tougher for you to be me, huh,” Jules says, quirking an eyebrow up with a tiny grin.

Deacon laughs a little at that, and Jules relaxes a tiny bit. “Actually, I bet I could squeeze into that billowy blue dress you like so much. It’s way to big on you, and with a pair of heels? Has distinct possibilities…”

“Let me watch through the window, and you got yourself a deal,” she says, winking. Asking Deacon to wear a dress was something she’d been working up to asking him about anyway, if she’s being completely honest here.

Deacon lets out another sigh, and pulls her flush against his body, and for a moment Jules feels so stupidly _happy_ she has to close her eyes against the rush of emotion.

“I just,” Deacon says, and she stays still, not wanting to scare him off, even after all this time. “I just wanted to feel like I was...there with you. With both of you.”

“I know,” she says quietly, voice slightly muffled. “I know. I think you should just talk to Mac about it. Tell him what you just told me. He’ll understand.”

 _You’re safe here,_ she wants to say. _Even if Mac doesn’t like this, it’s not the end of everything. There’s room for error, there’s room for mistakes, this isn’t a final death round, one misstep and you’re out. Just stay._

But she stops herself, and when Deacon makes another sound of protest she tilts her face up, almost kissing him, close enough to feel every puff of breath on her lips.

“Trust me. Trust _him._ It’s going to be fine. We know you lo-like us,” she stumbles at the end. A small slip, but of course he notices, a slight twitch of his hands the giveaway, and Jules curses her pleasure-fogged brain.

Deacon doesn’t make a big deal out of it, though. Just squeezes her one more time and kisses her on the temple. Whispers “okay” and “goodnight” before retreating to his little workspace. She knows without asking that he’ll be sleeping on his little cot tonight, and if it feels like a rejection...well. Jules just has to remind herself that they’re meeting him at his level right now. Reminds herself to not be so damn greedy all the time, and to take it as slow as they probably all need to.

***********

The next day, Jules wakes alone in bed. The warm space where Mac usually sleeps still smells like him — _must’ve just gotten up_ — and she stretches luxuriously for a moment before sitting up. A soft rumble of voices drift in from down the hall, and with a yawn she stands up and pads out of the room.

Deacon and Mac are on the couch together, Mac’s legs stretched over Deacon’s lap, both of them holding coffee cups and talking quietly. Early morning sunlight streams in through the windows behind them, lighting up Mac’s hair and glinting off Deacon’s sunglasses.

She stops for a moment, lingering in the dim hallway before they see her, and with a wash of understanding she _gets_ it, gets the pleasure of seeing them together. Of wanting to be a part of it, but not wanting to spoil it, either. Wanting them to have a quiet morning, made special in part by her absence.

But then Mac looks up, sees her frankly lurking in her own house like a weirdo, and nudges Deacon with his foot. Deacon smiles that slow, easy smile, and Mac wiggles his fingers in a partial wave and a half-grin, and her heart feels so full and light that her breath catches in her throat.

“Hey.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm also on [tumblr](http://tinwomanrunaway.tumblr.com/), if you want to swing by and say hey!


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